Pulling Teeth
It was brief, the span of silence after all of the shops and bars had closed, when the city was quiet and still. Then, somewhere in the dark labyrinth, a flash of sparks from the collision of blades. Steel would rend flesh and send blood spraying, every drop catching the light of the moon and glowing like crimson fireflies. Then there were two such fights, then three, and so on, until the scene stretched across the city, with endless strangers swinging away at each other in the highest form of audacity.
The knights and soldiers leaped into action, fanning out to put a stop to the fighting, even if it meant joining in and putting down the combatants like rabid dogs. It was all kept quiet, no one shouting orders or using flashy spells so that the revelers could avoid the detection and the knights could keep things from escalating. But now, there was a new player on the board, the Harajin. They moved like a pack of wolves, blending into the darkness and making no noise. Every time they encountered a reveler, death came quickly. Many were slain before they could even draw their weapon or cry in pain.
They came upon a dwarf with an axe, his warrior instinct told him he was being followed, but every time he looked back, he saw nothing but darkness. He made the mistake of looking forward, as the next moment, two sickles were buried in his back, piercing his lungs and robbing him of the ability to scream. He couldn’t even fight back and was pulled out of view, his body hauled away as if he was weightless. This was the specialty of the Harajin. They’d lie in wait beneath the sands like a spider in its den, then sink their hooks into their unsuspecting prey and drag them under the dunes to finish the job.
Next, they came across a tall, lanky swordsman. To his credit, he saw them approach, not that he could save himself. Two of them attacked him at once, with their billowing cloaks and erratic movements concealing their actions. They both shot past the man with their attacks near invisible to the naked eye. The first went for the man’s raised arm, his sickles slicing through his biceps and sending blood pouring. The second Harajin went for the stomach. Despite the swordsman’s chainmail, the tips of the sickles pierced his defenses and his chest was carved open with his intestines spilling out into the street.
The bodies were searched, though Grond knew none of their victims carried the potion. He felt no guilt towards those suffering the pointless violence, only lamented the energy wasted. There was one final act performed on each body: the cutting of every major vein and artery, done so in a way so that all of the blood would pour out onto the ground. Every victim of their slaughter was drained the same way, left to lie in a pool of gore. It was the custom performed for every kill.
What the Harajin did not know was that they were being followed. The winged beastman, still on his search for an academy applicant with a face similar to his own, was taking a break from his own hunting and instead resorting to scavenging. He had spotted them while flying through the sky, five figures repeatedly ganging up on one reveler at a time. He’d wait for them to leave, then swoop down and search the bodies. The Harajin only seemed interested in whatever potions their victims carried, and left everything else, including letters of recommendation. However, none of the bodies looked like him, much to his disappointment.
He returned to the sky to once more search for the Harajin, but high above the city, where he should have been safe, an arrow pierced his wing. “Shit!” he swore as the pain knocked him out of the sky.
The arrow was enchanted with warrior magic, causing it to fly farther and faster than a regular arrow, as well as glow like a tracer round. Even with warrior magic, few archers could make such a shot. He did his best to ignore the wound and resume flying, but as soon as he stabilized himself, more arrows assailed him from below, one missing while the second pierced his other wing and the third scraped his cheek.
Escape was not an option, both as a tactic and as a matter of pride. The winged warrior could not flee from an enemy that had dealt him such an injury. He changed his angle, diving back towards the city and spinning back and forth through the air to dodge the incoming arrows. They were rising from one of the walls of the castle where a lone knight stood with his bow in hand. The beastman dropped out of the sky like a missile, and as he approached, he turned his nosedive into a kick. His clawed foot began to glow with radiant mana and it extended up his leg as he increased the power.
The knight decided to dodge rather than fire another arrow. He made the right choice, as when the beastman struck the castle wall, it was like a cannonball had landed. A dust cloud was created, from which the beastman pounced for another kick towards the knight. The knight blocked the incoming talons with his bow and the beastman leaned in, swinging at the knight’s throat with his hand alight with mana.
The knight dodged the attack and pushed the beastman back. They faced each other, the beastman assuming the stance of a martial artist with his talons digging into the stone. He noticed the armor of his foe and smiled. “Gold-rank, huh? I’m guessing Uther would suffer quite a bit if I were to kill someone like you.”
“The arrogance of youth, to speak those words in my presence. I am Sir Leuca Aithorn of the Utheric Knight Order. To die at my hands would be too good for you, but you have presented yourself oh so willingly.” The cold, condescending voice and the lightness of his steps were obvious enough for the beastman to understand he was facing an elf, even if his helmet concealed his face.
“I am Roc, of the hawk tribe, and after I kill you, I’ll be able to take down the rest of your order.”
“More arrogance.” Aithorn relinquished his bow for his main weapon, a spear with three blades in the shape of a cross.
Atop the castle wall and beneath the radiant moon, their battle began. Roc launched himself towards Aithorn with a pulse of his wings and extended his leg for another kick. The elf sidestepped and jabbed at Roc, slicing the front of one of his wings while moving towards his blind spot. Roc gritted through the pain and touched down, then used his momentum to spin himself around and hurl a neck-high kick towards the knight. The blow was dodged and Roc chased after Aithorn, continuing his onslaught of kicks. His wings, which should have gotten in his way, were used to propel himself in and out of the range of attack in short bursts.
The power of his attacks, despite being enhanced with mana, was made redundant as Aithorn blocked and dodged every attempt. Even worse, the elf’s counterattacks were slipping past his guard and hitting their marks. He moved with light steps as if bouncing, and his mastery of the spear was absolute. He could change his hold and launch attacks faster than Roc could blink, moving in a nonstop blur with Roc’s eyes struggling to keep up. Trying to keep his distance wasn’t working. He retreated from Aithorn’s reach and dispelled his transformation, causing his wings to retract into his back and his legs to revert to their human appearance.
“Surrendering? You seem to have some intelligence after all. Very well, I will—”
Roc closed the distance in the blink of an eye and attempted another kick, cutting off Aithorn and forcing him to block. As soon as they collided, Roc delivered a finger jab in midair. The attack, enhanced with mana and shaped like an eagle’s beak, should have torn through Aithorn’s throat, but the elf lowered his chin to block with his helmet. The steel was shredded by the blow, just barely protecting Aithorn. It was not an injury, but it was a hit.
Aithorn forced the young warrior back and Roc didn’t even bother waiting to catch his breath. He leaped forward to unleash another barrage, a combination of trained kicks and powerful jabs. His momentum was keeping Aithorn on his toes, or so he thought. One moment, Roc was flying into the air, about to unleash a kick, then Aithorn’s spear appeared before his eyes as if through teleportation, and he felt the tip slide into his shoulder so terrifyingly easily.
Roc’s voice slipped free before he could stop it, a howl of pain, but to be impaled warranted such a reaction. Aithorn was holding the spear with only one hand, strong enough to keep Roc suspended in the air. He instinctively grabbed at anything he could to lift himself and take the weight, accomplishing was slicing up his hands. He then attempted to break the spear, but the weapon was enchanted to raise its durability, and Aithorn was out of his reach.
“You managed to damage my armor. As you can imagine, I’m quite angry, but with myself. That I would let some buzzing fly with half-baked martial arts inflict damage to me … You haven’t even named your spells. Perhaps I was too kind in holding back, letting you cling to your hope. I’m just glad that no one is here to witness this humiliation.”
“I’m still here, bastard.”
Out of moves, Roc conjured his wings, still wounded from before, and gave a desperate flap. It wasn’t enough to create distance, just something to get him off the blade. As soon as his feet touched the ground, he jumped back well out of Aithorn’s range, though as soon as he stopped, he fell to his knees. He was losing blood fast, as well as strength and mana. It would be so easy to just jump off the wall, and while he couldn’t fly, he could at least glide and slow his descent, and then escape by foot. It was so simple, but that thought only came up so that he could throw it aside. Roc’s gaze never left his foe, even for the slightest glance. Rather, he pulled off the scarf hiding his face and spat out a mouthful of blood, then assumed his combat stance.
“If I must die in battle, very well, but I will not meet Death with a disguise.”
He reabsorbed his wings and began channeling the last of his mana into his hand as he awaited the elf’s response. There was no weakness in his eyes, and though his body shook from his wounds, his form was strong as iron. Pity or respect, Roc did not know which was more unlikely, but Aithorn removed his damaged helm and sat it on the ground. Under the moon’s light, his polished armor and platinum hair shined as if he was made from its dust. Mana consumed his spear, and he too assumed a stance.
“An honorable death is my gift to you, and my final mercy.”
They stared each other down, both waiting for fate to determine which moment was worthy. They dared not break eye contact or alter their breathing, and while blood poured freely from Roc’s shoulder, the splashing drops were not loud enough to break the stillness. Down below, there was a scream, piercing the night like the chime of a bell. The two warriors charged towards each other, no plan in their minds, only instinct, energized into its fastest form.
Aithorn acted first, thrusting his spear towards Roc. He had been gripping it in the center, but it shot forward like a piston to his maximum reach. Roc sent his hand forward, all of his mana compressed into this attack, and struck the incoming blade, managing to deflect it just enough for the center blade to miss his face. One of the side blades slashed his chest, not that there was time to acknowledge the wound. Roc jumped into the air for a kick to Aithorn’s temple, but the elf was faster, slamming his fist into Roc’s stomach. The blow knocked him out before he even hit the ground.
They were without sound, the hinges of Cyrilo’s bedroom door and the footfalls on the floor. Grond entered the room as but a moving shadow and approached the bed and the shape beneath the covers. “Madam Cyrilo.” He repeated her name until she woke. The moonlight outside was not enough to let her see her guest, so she took her cat form before rising from the sheets, staring through the darkness at Grond.
“I had a feeling you would pay a visit.”
“Then you know why I’m here.”
“The potion, you want it back.”
“It is something of dire importance, something that can’t fall out of the Harajin’s possession. I must return it to Urandil.”
“Do you know what it is?”
“No.”
“Well I do.” Cyrilo hopped off the bed and began the long walk across the room to her study. “It didn’t smell at all like any of Urandil’s other work, so my first thought was that one of you was trying to pull something and I considered just throwing it out the window.” Grond followed her into her study and she jumped up onto the desk. “But I decided to be hopeful and try to identify it. I took a small sample to look at with the sunlight and the glass tube burst into flames. My hand and the table underneath were badly burned.” She shifted her gaze to a table near the window, now blackened. Beside the spot was the ceramic bottle containing the rest of the potion. “At that point, I was ready to believe that one of you was trying to kill me. With how much pain I was experiencing, I’m sure you can imagine how angry I was.”
“It was all a mistake. He gave me the wrong bottle. He even sent other Harajin to warn me and retrieve it.” He approached the table and reached out for the potion.
“I realized that was the likely situation when I noticed the flames were black. Black fire, Grond, black as Death’s robe. You understand the significance of that, correct?”
Grond’s hand stopped as her words knocked his mind out of the conversation, sending it landing with a splash into a pool of memories, memories of his training. He remembered the freezing desert nights, and how he and the other initiates would sit unmoving from dusk to dawn. The teachers would pace around them, armed with cacti branches, and any trainee who shivered would be beaten bloody. He remembered the bite of the wire slicing his fingers as he and the other initiates slid down from the cavern ceiling like silkworms. The wire was secured in a way that it could just barely support his weight as long as he only moved up and down, but would snap if he started to swing. He remembered the smell of blood and viscera as he lay within the scooped-out torso cavities of monsters, unmoving, waiting, as though his target would walk by any second. The smell of the bloating corpse, the wild temperature changes, the animals feeding on his shelter, even the needs of his body; he had to ignore them all for days at a time and not move a single unnecessary muscle.
These memories were triggered by a muscle spasm crawling up his spine, one that chilled his blood. Had he just shuddered? It was those words Cyrilo had spoken, what they implicated, and the fear they invoked towards the bottle just inches from his fingers.
“I understand.”
“Those monsters are supposed to be extinct. I don’t know how he did it, but Urandil is putting himself and the world in danger if it is fresh. I have half a mind to hand this over to the knights so that the king can finish what his predecessors started. Bring it back to Urandil and tell him I’ve taken some to hold onto. Also, I want my notes. He’s not getting them until I get the potion I was promised.”
Grond revealed the scroll that Noah had given him and placed it on the burned table. He looked back at Cyrilo, staring at him with her hair on end. “I know this time of year is difficult for us to meet, but from now on, I would prefer you not send that man to pick up deliveries. He shot me in the leg with an arrow because I wouldn’t give him the potion. Who was he?”
“I do apologize for that. He was some reveler who snuck in during the night. I was going to report him, the I decided to give him a chance to redeem himself instead. Like you said, this time of year is difficult, so I wanted a degree of separation. Besides, you and Lucius don’t get along either. Maybe the problem is on your side.”
“How ironic for us both to be cursed. Speaking of which, still no change? When last we spoke, you were excited about a magic amulet that seemed promising.”
In response, Cyrilo transformed, but her appearance and voice were far different at night than during the day. “It was a fake. The curse is still active, as you can see.”
“Apologies. When does it reset?”
She transformed back into a cat. “Every sunrise, and it’s best if I remain in my cat form when it happens. I had high hopes for Urandil’s potion, but that bottled venom might be useful in the meantime. You said you had met other Harajin with a message from Urandil. Do they know the bottle left your possession?”
“Yes.”
“How will you explain getting it back?”
“Our leader had us scatter to find it and we’ll join up and continue as a group later. I’ll just plant it on a corpse and act surprised. If that doesn’t work, I’ll return it to Urandil in secret and everyone else will write it off as lost forever.”
“Put a little more thought into this. If the elders know what’s in that bottle, I doubt they’ll be in a forgiving mood. Even your comrades will pay dearly for failing to bring it back.”
“I am aware of that. However, the farther away I keep them from you, the farther away I keep them from Charles. How is he?”
“Growing like a weed. He’s happy and healthy.”
“So no… ?”
“No signs of the plague. I check every time I visit.”
“That’s good. I was thinking that perhaps…” He trailed off, both he and Cyrilo turning to the nearby window. Dawn was still hours away, so why was it suddenly so bright out?
It wasn’t the best spot, but it was under a roof. Noah had decided to camp out in the nearby church for the night, sleeping amongst the rafters like Quasimodo. He managed to find a platform in the back corner, large enough for him to lie down on, and was wrapped in his traveling blanket. Unfortunately, while it did keep him out of view, there were far more eyes than he would have liked. The cathedral floor had become a sea of the homeless, just one of the many locations catching the tourist overflow from the inns. Countless travelers, silent and unmoving, were lined up like corpses collected after battle, with only the occasional snore or cough to break the stillness. However, there was tension in the air.
Just about everyone in the church had a weapon within their reach, and most travelers and adventurers knew how to sleep with one eye open. There was no telling when some thief might try robbing or even killing people in the darkness. Every time someone moved or made a suspicious noise, one or two bodies would be seen shifting, with every awake person in earshot preparing for battle. It was for this reason that Noah snuck into the church rather than going through the front door. It was better that no one know he was there. Up on his perch, he had a perfect view of the late-night Cold War.
The moon cast pools of light upon the floor, each stained by the colored glass windows. They moved across the bodies like searchlights, just bright enough to let Noah see and measure the passing of time. His mind would sink into the shallow seas of dreamless sleep, and then every hour, it would rise from the depths like a whale. He’d open his eyes to survey the silent darkness, and then dive right back in.
Another glance, movement, someone walking amongst the sleeping homeless. Noah’s tired eyes focused on the stranger as he analyzed every detail and movement they made. The cloak was familiar, and beneath the hood, he could see the white of a porcelain mask. Was that Grond? Was he following Noah? He activated his invisibility just in case and kept watch. But it was strange, for as far as Noah could tell, he was the only one aware of the stranger’s presence. No one else was moving, for no one could hear the silent footsteps or see the black cloak in the dark of night. Perhaps everyone, even the tensest adventurers, had given in to their fatigue and surrendered to the bliss of a deep sleep? No, this person, their evasion and stealth abilities were second only to Noah’s.
The assassin removed a corked jar from a hidden pocket and a rag. He removed the cork but covered the jar with the rag for several moments, then pulled it away so that a scarab could crawl out and take flight. Noah could not smell it, Grond’s scent on the rag, but to the scarab, it was all-encompassing, and now it was searching for the source like a bloodhound. It zipped around the church in winding circles, and though it showed some slight attention to the section of wall that Noah scaled to reach his perch, it eventually returned to the Harajin, having failed its task. He sealed it back in the jar and then turned to leave.
Noah’s attention was slipping as his exhaustion tantalized him with the thought of sleep, and he considered releasing his spell, then something happened, something which flipped his switch and put him on full alert. One of the sleeping vagrants sat up with his sword in hand, perhaps awoken by the buzzing of the scarab, and the Harajin was nowhere to be seen. It was as if he had teleported out of the church. The man looked around and soon returned to his slumber, and against all reasoning, the Harajin reappeared where he had been standing.
It wasn’t teleportation, but invisibility. Noah couldn’t even see his mana.
It came to a boil within Noah, curiosity, same as when he was in the dungeon crab and witnessed the structures within its shell. This stranger had a power similar to his own, but was it a unique ability or one possessed by all Harajin? If it was the latter, there were safer means to find answers. If it was the former, then he could not allow the stranger to escape. Noah left his little campsite where it was and climbed down from the rafters with just his weapons. He was still concealed by magic, so he followed the Harajin through a branching corridor and then a side door, coming out into the city streets. As he followed him, Noah wrapped his head in bandages in place of a mask and stole a sleeping man’s hat.
It was bright outside, brighter than it should have been. The eyes of both Noah and the Harajin were drawn to the sky, where an orb of light cast its radiance upon the city. From its color and size, it looked exactly like a second full moon, and while the slumbering citizens of Uther would not notice, the revelers and those likewise out in the streets were all hypnotized by it. It was floating directly above the town square, leaving all to guess at its purpose. Was it a spell used by someone in battle? Was it a message to the troops to organize them and their movements? A means to light up the streets and expose the violence? It appeared to be pulsing in sets of five.
Noah drew his bow and summoned his clone, which, like him, was wrapped in bandages that concealed its face, then stepped away to the side and took aim at the masked stranger. “Harajin, not one more step.” He spoke with the same deepened voice he used on Grond, and the figure came to a halt. “Don’t turn around. Raise your hands where I can see them. You try anything and you’ll regret it.” He hesitantly raised his hands. “Answer my questions and this will end peacefully. What is your name?” The Harajin spun around and hurled two knives at Noah’s clone. In response, the real Noah, far out of the way, shot him in the hip with an arrow. Considering the wound, his willpower was commendable, as he immediately tried to flee with impressive speed. It didn’t last long, as he soon found himself barely able to stand, let alone escape. “You people are too stubborn for your own good. I’m starting to find it annoying. Give me your name, now.”
“Bastard,” he hissed while glaring at Noah’s clone. From the look of the mask, it wasn’t Grond. “This is one of our paralyzing agents. You dipped your arrows in our poison.”
“Considering that you’re still standing, I’m guessing you have some resistance to it, probably exposed over and over as part of your training. But the adding damage of being shot with an arrow is probably more than even you can handle. Your name.” Whoever he was, he refused to speak, instead trying to throw more knives, so Noah shot him in the shoulder. Strong as he was, the man finally collapsed. “Give me your name.”
“Hulf.”
“Good. That spell you used in the church to disappear and reappear, cast it right now.” No response. “Are you refusing?” Noah looked down and saw glowing runes appear on the ground, runes for an earth spell. A third arrow, this time in the leg, opposite the side of the arrow in his hip. This drew a stifled groan of pain and cancelled the spell that Hulf attempted to cast. “I’m going to start aiming for vital areas if you don’t give me what I want, Hulf.”
“Just kill me. I will never reveal clan secrets.”
“I don’t care about the Harajin and I’m not working for anyone. I just want to know how that spell works. Tell me and I’ll let you live.”
“Never.”
“Is this spell really worth dying for? All I seek is knowledge. To deprive me of that, you would surrender all the years you have left, a lifetime of experiences and memory? That sounds like a bad deal on your part. How is getting in my way worth such a price?”
“I am loyal to the Harajin! I will die before I talk!”
“Now, now, no need to be so dramatic. Let’s discuss this like adults. You believe your life to less valuable than the secret of your spell. Is there anything more valuable? What would I have to give you for you to speak up?” Hulf had gone back to giving him the silent treatment. Noah, still invisible, stood just outside of his range and used his bow to tap the arrow in Hulf’s shoulder. He twitched, but remained silent, despite the wound now throbbing. “Ah, so this poison paralyzes without blocking pain. As assassins, I’ll give you points for having the full package. Right now your body is blocking it out, but soon those wounds will start to ache. I will give you a health potion if you just tell me what I’d need to give you for that spell. A mountain of gold? Eternal youth? Your own kingdom with land to rule? Just give me the true price.”
“Give me the moon and I’ll tell you,” Hulf replied. “Otherwise, drop dead.”
Noah took out a health potion, one looted from Oritz. “Is that really the price? If I were to give you the moon, you swear you would tell me?”
“Just kill me already!”
Noah tossed him the healing potion. It landed in Hulf’s lap, much to his surprise, as he could not tell which direction it came from. “So, we’ve established it’s for sale and set a price. Now we just negotiate. Rather than the moon, how about gold? How much gold would I have to give you?”
“Enough of this! No matter what you do, I won’t tell you anything!” An attempt to draw a knife earned him an arrow in his good arm, leaving all four limbs compromised. Unfortunately, that was Noah’s last arrow.
Plenty of people have told me that before, and most were smart enough to change their minds with a little persuasion. I’m asking you nicely to spare us both the effort of that process. Wouldn’t it be wonderful if we could just enjoy a little chat, exchange some information, and then walk away? You’re on some kind of mission, aren’t you? Death is failure, failure is shame. Is your mission less important than the spell?” He could hear Hulf’s labored breathing, the only sound he was making. “Very well.”
Noah left Hulf and stepped into the deepest shadows of the street. He was well-enough concealed to release his spells and conserve mana. His eyes never left Hulf, who was looking around in bewilderment. The final arrow never came and Noah was gone without hearing any footsteps. He didn’t know what was going on, only that he had to get away from the area. He went to work pulling out the arrows and reached for the potion Noah gave him. He saw it roll off him, saw that it was a Harajin bottle. He found it, but struggled to make sense of it. Was he being betrayed by someone on the team? Sent on this mission, accompanying his own executioner? Or was this the man who killed Oritz? He discarded the potion and drank one of his own, though its Ezerian origins made it just potent enough to stop the bleeding.
Hulf gnashed his teeth as he dragged himself out of the middle of the street. Nearby, he heard the braying of horses. Mounted soldiers appeared at the end of the road carrying lanterns and spears. He wasn’t directly in their path, but they would surely see him. He understood, then, why he had been spared. If he was captured by the knights, dead or alive, valuable secrets would fall into Uther’s hands.
“Damn you,” he hissed.
The soldiers passed by, none of them even sparing a glance, for where Hulf lay, bystanders would only see vacant air. Once more, the street was silent and empty, and moments later, Hulf reappeared.
Noah’s clone approached Hulf while the real Noah hung back. “Rather than being irritated with you for wasting a perfectly good health potion, I’ll commend your willpower and instincts to refuse one given by an enemy. You are a credit to your group.” By his feet were the remains of the healing potion he had given the Harajin, stepped on by one of the horses. “So, you really can make yourself invisible, but neither here nor in the church did you escape while it was active. I’m willing to bet you can’t move while it’s active. I’m not sure whether that is reassuring or disappointing. If other Harajin can use it, then that information will be worth a lot to the kingdom. Tell me about the spell and I won’t say anything. This is all for my personal knowledge.”
Hulf, with all of his strength, forced himself back up onto his feet and tried to draw a dagger. He was no longer blocking the pain, rather using it to try and reassert control over his paralyzed limbs. A herculean effort, though he received a kick to the stomach before his hand could reach the handle. He slumped back down with blood trickling from his mask and Noah stood back.
“I’m rather disappointed. With what I heard about the Harajin, I thought you would put up more of a fight, and your magic is subpar. Still, I can respect your desire and strength in protecting your group. You have rules that you follow, even if it kills you. I’m a bit curious: Do you have a rule for taking pleasure in killing and inflicting pain on others? Some commandment or code? I think you can tell me that much.”
Between his ragged breaths, Hulf finally spoke. “It is a sin to harm without killing.”
“But do you enjoy it?”
“No.”
“Neither do I, or, at least, I don’t allow myself to enjoy it. That is my one rule: take no joy in harming others. The longer you make me do this, the closer I get to breaking that rule, and I would very much like not to. Just tell me how the spell works.”
“Never.”
“You’re truly willing to suffer and die for the Harajin? The strength of your will is admirable, but if you really want to protect them, you’ll tell me what I want to know.” Noah had his clone crouch down and lean in. “I know there are more of you guys in the city. I will hunt them down, one by one, and do whatever it takes to get my answers. If they don’t submit, I’ll cross the sea to Ezeria and start all over again. Explain the spell and all of this violence can be over with.”
“You’re bluffing.”
“Look me in the eyes and say you don’t believe me.”
Hulf took a deep breath. “Very well. This will tell you everything you need to know.” He reached into his cloak and pulled out a small scroll. Before it could be retrieved, he broke the seal and let it unravel, revealing the lines of runes inscribed on it. It fell to the ground, smeared with the blood from his wounds, and the runes began to glow. “I’ll take both the secret and you to my grave! Desert Burial!”
Noah instinctively jumped back, but the ground itself was now his enemy. What had originally been packed earth became sand that was finer than flour, and all of it was churning like a maelstrom with Hulf in the center. The aerating soil was sucking Noah’s feet in faster than he could pull them out, same as everything near of Hulf, who had allowed himself to be swallowed without any resistance, while the scroll turned to ash. Had Noah been standing where his clone was, he would share the same fate. He was just close enough to the edge of the spell to try and escape. His sword, his bow, and any other disposable items were laid out across the churning quicksand and used like snowshoes to lift himself up. A single step was all it took for the items to be absorbed into the earth and lost forever, but he was able to stay on his feet and keep from sinking. The maelstrom had a radius of ten feet and every inch traversed towards the edge was an ordeal,
His hands reached solid ground and he managed to pull himself out. By the time Noah caught his breath, the spell had run its course, and a large circle of earth had been worn into the street, as hard as dried clay. On the other side from Noah, a shop had been caught in the mess and lost its foundations, now on the brink of collapsing like a house of cards. He got to his feet and dusted himself off, much to his annoyance. Bad enough he lost his sleeve the previous night, he now needed to get his clothes washed again, as well as get replacements for his lost weapons and items. Going back to sleep wasn’t an option, but now he had something to occupy his time. He looked up to the false moon in the sky, pulsing in its radiance. There were more Harajin in the city to interrogate, and he knew the first place to look.
Adwith Tarnas sat on a bench in the Town Square in full armor. The homeless were absent, forced out in order to create a sterile perimeter. A row of fountains took center stage in the Town Square, still hissing, protecting conversations that weren’t meant to be heard. Near his feet, the ground was burned, originally a vast puddle of blood with a corpse in the center. The body had been dealt with, leaving only ashes behind. High above his head floated the second moon, an orb of his own mana lighting up the city. In Ezeria, when armies faced each other, five beats of a war drum or something similar was the signal for the leaders to meet and discuss terms. Even if the Harajin did not follow the practice, he hoped they would understand his intention.
The orb did draw someone. He heard their footsteps as they entered the Town Square. Even with the fountains adding white noise, Tarnas’s battle experience and awareness honed his senses to levels thought out of reach of mortal men. Whether they were his intended target or not, the steps they made were meant to be heard. The sound was manufactured and draped over what should have been a silent gait formed from training and skill as a warrior.
“Any luck?” Valia Zodiac asked. She was garbed in thin leather armor with added scale mail for protection. Her tight-fitting clothes focused more on flexibility than defense and her silver hair and eyes gleamed like starlight.
“Nothing yet, but you never know. What are you doing here? I ordered everyone to avoid this area. Too many people will scare them off.”
“You come off less as an honest negotiator and more like obvious bait. I mean, you’re strong, but I’m sure they know could get away from you. They’re going to think someone else is lying in wait.”
“Oi.”
“You’re intimidating, but you aren’t that fast. Now, if I’m the one standing beside you, they know that we can handle them if things go sour. There is no need for traps or keeping others in hiding.”
“Oi, don’t call me slow.”
“I say it with all the love and respect in the world.” She strolled over and sat beside him on the bench. “I’m glad you returned from Handent all in one piece.”
“I almost didn’t. Damn lion man nearly bit one of my fingers off.”
“Sounds rough. How was it out there? I heard you had a bad winter.”
He gave a mix of a snort and an exasperated sigh. “Nothing went right. It was like we were cursed.”
“Wasn’t there some kind of parasite problem?”
“The sodomy leeches, yes. A contingent of my men went to explore a lake and their boat capsized and dropped them into the water. Half of them were killed by the little suckers.”
“A poor choice of words, Look on the bright side: It surely is not worth the lives of your men, but the ability to tell this story to people is priceless in its own right. Just think. Of all the conversations you’ll have in the future; bad, good, tense, and comfortable, you have the ability to drop the sodomy leach story into your proponent’s lap. A power like that is one only the gods should wield.”
“Thank you for being such a supportive friend. How would I ever live without your sage wisdom? Anyway, I got plenty more stories so it won’t be lonely. One of our blacksmiths, his anvil broke and crushed his foot. His anvil. Then all of the horses and oxen suffered from food poisoning and created a mess that could be seen from the stars. I lost more than a dozen men just to falling icicles.”
“If you’re cursed, it’s a damn good one.”
“One of my squires had to be castrated due to frostbite.”
“Good God. Now I’m thinking I shouldn’t be anywhere near you.”
“Luckily my fortune cleared up by spring and we made up for lost ground. Then I heard about Valon.”
“Any news? Any sightings in Handent?”
“Nothing I’ve heard of. For all we know, he could be at the other end of the world. Wait, are you here to ask the Harajin about him?”
“I have to cast the widest net I can. I can’t let this opportunity slip by. They’re assassins, so who knows what kind of information they have.”
“We can’t let our enemies know that he’s missing.”
“Which is why we need to do everything we can to find him. I’ll be asking for the sake of the country if it makes you feel better. Just don’t let anyone know I was here.”
A minute later, they both perked up and looked over to the entrance of the Town Square. One of the Harajin stood there, his black cloak sinking into the darkness and making his white mask look like another moon.
“I’m glad you understood my message. Now, identify yourself.”
“I am Klein, here to speak on behalf of the Harajin, and I already know who you two are. Sir Adwith Tarnas, nicknamed “Light’s Emissary”, and Lady Valia Zodiac of the famous Zodiac Twins.”
“You know about me, but what do you know of my brother?”
“Valia!” Tarnas hissed. She ignored him.
“You Harajin probably get all kinds of rumors. As a show of good faith, tell me what you’ve heard.”
“I don’t know anything.”
Tarnas got to his feet and stopped Valia from asking any further. “Good, then on to business. The peace accord, is it real or not?”
“I received no orders about it, nor have I seen any documents suggesting it. It was claimed by a comrade of mine, but I heard nothing about it until after he was dead.”
“He was wielding a knight’s sword, said it was given to him for safe passage. Three knights have died within the city since the start of the year and their swords were accounted for, so if it really was a knight sword, either it really was given, or it was taken off a dead knight outside of Colbrand.”
“I was not aware of him possessing such a sword, nor do I have it.”
The answers satisfied neither Valia nor Adwith, and she spoke up. “When you said you were here to speak on behalf of the Harajin, I assumed you meant that you would actually share information. Is feigning ignorance and innocence really all you can do? Instead of telling us what you don’t know, tell us what you do know.”
“You expect me to just blurt out secrets? We Harajin are known for many things, but loose lips are not one of them.”
“Perhaps we should hand you over to Gradius. You know who he is, correct? He is known for many things, and loosening lips is one of them,” said Tarnas.
“I’m not afraid of death nor pain, so save your breath. What do I and my comrades have to gain from divulging more information?”
“You can secure an alliance between Uther and the Harajin. Even if this ends up being a hoax, a dialogue has been established. Peace can still be an option. However, you and your comrades have a lot to answer for.” Tarnas held up a bloody shirt and his body was shrouded in mana. “I don’t care if they were revelers, you do not go around slaughtering who you please in my city! And even worse, one of your comrades poisoned two of mine!”
“I do not have an antidote on me at the moment. That concession can perhaps be made.”
“Give us something that will convince us to spare your life. You claimed that you did not know what your companion was doing, so what were you doing here? What was your original mission? You’ve been killing revelers on purpose, so tell us why,” Valia ordered.
“We are pursuing a target and we know them to be taking part in the Red Revelries. I don’t know why he’s been targeted, I simply fulfill the order.”
“Not anymore,” said Tarnas, “I want you and your creed out of the city before first light. Kill one more person, and whatever you do to them will be done to you. Consider that an act of diplomacy, but if you want to walk away from here alive, call one of your subordinates to hand over the antidote, now. I’m sure they’re watching.”
Klein raised his hand and moved his fingers to create four signs. Less than a minute later, Grond appeared from behind him as if stepping out of his shadow. Neither Valia nor Tarnas heard his approach, and even the second moon failed to cast light on his movements. For a Harajin, this level of stealth and skill was something learned in childhood. Despite their abilities, to call the two vs two situation balanced would be more than a little exaggerative for the Harajin. They were skilled assassins and fighters, but Adwith Tarnas and Valia Zodiac were on a whole other level. If things went wrong, their only option was to flee, and each hope that the other would serve as the sacrificial lamb.
Klein whispered something to Grond and then Grond revealed a bottle from within his cloak. “Apply this to the wounds each day for three days and your friends will recover.” He set it on the ground between the two sides and then retreated behind Klein.
“I wouldn’t take that potion if I were you.” All parties turned to the source of the voice, seeing a bandaged stranger entering the town square with a sword on his back. “Whether they are deceitful or just clumsy, I have yet to see a Harajin deliver what is promised.”
Both Tarnas and Valia placed their hands on their sheathed swords. “Identify yourself!” the former barked.
“Me? Don’t worry, I’m nobody. I have no desire to fight with anyone here, nor do I take part in the Red Revelries. I simply wish to have a peaceful discussion with the Harajin once you have concluded your business. You gave them until first light, I believe? Plenty of time for us to chat.”
The two knights and the Harajin, both sides stared at the stranger with their hair on end. A new variable had just been introduced, one that could rip apart the shaky balance. To so brazenly interrupt this exchange was the act of someone either truly foolish or truly capable. Whose side was he on?
Klein gritted his teeth, realizing that this stranger was aware of his team’s situation. “Grond, is this the guy who took the potion from you?”
“I’m not sure.” But Grond was sure, he knew the moment he heard the voice. The details weren’t quite what he had explained to Klein, but this indeed was the man who took the potion.
“Your intentions do not matter,” Tarnas growled. “Simply being out during the Red Revelries is a crime and has earned you a place in the dungeon.”
“I suppose they really don’t matter, do they? But arresting me doesn’t matter either. With all due respect, I’m not worth the effort. I don’t play the game, I simply watch it. Be proud of your city, it has shown me special kind of madness and violence I’ve never seen before. These blood-drunk warriors, playing their game of hide and seek like murderous children, with an entire city as their playground—it’s a feast for the mind. The irrationality, the life stories, the desires, so many raw facets of humanity coming together at once. Though I suppose I have committed a mortal sin of the theater, climbing up on stage and addressing the actors to try and change the play. Perhaps I should be arrested on that crime alone.
Regardless, you should really take my advice. Be skeptical of what’s in that bottle.”
Noah pointed and everyone dared a glance to the bottle. Valia and Tarnas could not see anything different, but Klein and Grond spotted the label. Rather than the fungal antidote, it was a healing potion. In this case, it might as well have been poison. If that was applied to the wounded knights, it would likely kill them, and the Harajin would take the blame. The two sides had avoided conflict since the last Ezerian war. If those knights died, a new war could ignite, with the Harajin themselves being Uther’s target.
That monologue, perhaps the entire reveal, all had been the distraction to make the switch, but they couldn’t understand how it had happened without their knowledge. It was sitting ten feet away from them! To be able to sneak up on Harajin like that, to completely evade their senses and steal something from right under their noses, it was an unnerving idea, both for their pride and their mortality. It had to have been a long-distance spell of some kind. His hand hidden behind his back, Klein began making signs with his fingers. Nearby, Valia and Tarnas were no less alarmed. They knew something was wrong, an unseen element or intent that threatened their control over the situation. Tentacles from the murky depths were prying their fingers off the future chain of events.
“If I were you, I’d wait at least a day before giving it to them.”
Tarnas drew his sword, a gold-inlaid claymore with a blade almost a foot wide and inscribed with a long line of runes. To wield such a weapon or simply block its swing required strength few present possessed. “This is your only warning: surrender quietly or I will end you. You say you aren’t worth the effort to arrest, but the same can’t be said for killing you.”
Noah sighed, the real Noah, standing ten feet away from his clone. He was almost out of mana, so he was ready to call it a night. His attention was drawn downwards as a bundle of throwing knives landed around the feet of his clone. Several more even passed through it and hit nothing but air. They were all laced with a paralysis potion, and the Harajin who threw them, as Klein had ordered with sign language, charged towards Noah from behind with sickles similarly coated. Noah stepped back into his clone and drew his sword to counter the imminent attack. The exchange was over in an instant, Noah’s clone swinging from his left and the Harajin trying to block, only for a slash from the right to sever head from neck. The body, headless and lifeless, collapsed, and Noah clicked his tongue.
“Ah, real shame there,” he said as he wiped the blood off the blade.
“That sword, it’s a knight’s!” Valia hissed.
“He’s the one that killed Oritz!” said Klein.
“I can see you’re all a little tense right now, so I think I’ll just call it quits.” He turned towards Klein and Grond. “Let’s meet tomorrow to hash this out. Same time, same place.”
“Lumendori’s Court!” The words were shouted by Tarnas as he pointed his sword straight up.
Around the false moon, a magic circle appeared, one of the largest Noah had ever seen. Next thing he knew, a beam of holy power was fired from the circle, washing over him like a wave of plasma and overwhelming all of his senses. When Rita healed him, her mana felt pleasant, rejuvenating, but at the moment, Noah feel like was in a giant microwave. Even worse, he was now visible. The paladin attack had erased his clone, forcibly deactivating the spell, as well as burning away Noah’s mana shroud. Nothing had been able to damage his illusions so far, but light magic appeared to be his weakness. It was a valuable discovery, as well as worrying and ridiculously painful.
He had been just a moment late in jumping back, but better late than never, as he was able to push himself out of the light and save himself. “That was a bit nasty,” he muttered. One step. All of his senses had been fried, leaving him so disoriented he could barely stand. He was completely vulnerable. Two steps. The next attack was imminent. No enemy worth their salt would let this opportunity slip by. Three steps. He shook his head and his eyes regained at least partial function, letting him see Klein and Valia charging towards him with their weapons ready. Four steps. Noah raised his hand, clutching four papery spheres. Five steps. He threw them at the ground and Noah, having just been enveloped by light, was now immersed in darkness.
Smoke bombs, he had collected them from Oritz and tested one before coming to Town Square. It appeared to be some kind of volcanic dust, black and shiny like obsidian. For the briefest moment, the light of the two moons in the sky made the dust gleam, and combined with the darkness of the night and the black hue, resembling a huge screen of TV static. That moment was all Noah needed. Klein and Valia, both having trained to fight without relying on vision, entered the thick smoke cloud. They attacked on instinct, the sound of metal striking metal rang out, only to realize their blades had locked with each other.
Noah had already reactivated his spell and vanished into the night.
Roc hit the cold stone ground with a groan. His wounds had been bandaged and his arm put in a sling, but that was the limit to the care he’d receive as a prisoner. His mind was spinning and every inch of his body hurt. Behind him, he heard an iron door slam shut.
“Oi! I’m supposed to be released!” he heard someone near him yell.
“Where am I?” he mumbled.
“Why, you’re in your royal palace of course!” Roc managed to open his eyes and look at the surly dwarf sitting on the straw mattress in front of him. “Here is your bed, with sheets woven by elf maidens!” He held up a half-eaten bowl of oatmeal that Roc almost thought to be vomit. “Join me, so that we may sup on this feast that even the gods envy.” He waved his arm to show the three brick walls. “Enjoy the view of your vast empire, stretching far beyond the horizon!” He grabbed a cockroach and tossed it at Roc. “Just one of your many royal subjects. Oh, and look!” He held up a squealing rat. “Your queen is feeling randy! Time to sire an heir!”
Roc didn’t have the strength to make a retort and simply blacked out.